Chapter 87: The Wrong Question

Chapter 87: Chapter 87: The Wrong Question

Haruki spent the entire weekend trying not to think about Yui.

The strategy failed immediately.

Every attempt to focus on work somehow circled back.

Chapter Twenty-One.

Yui.

Publisher contracts.

Yui.

Creator Point debt.

Yui.

The pattern became annoying quickly.

By Sunday afternoon, Haruki accepted reality.

Avoidance wasn’t working.

Unfortunately, understanding wasn’t working either.

His phone buzzed.

Aoi.

Naturally.

The rival apparently possessed supernatural timing.

The message contained one line.

Meeting with Yamashita tomorrow?

Haruki stared.

Then immediately replied.

How do you know that?

The response arrived thirty seconds later.

You’re asking the wrong question.

Haruki hated him.

Genuinely.

The follow-up appeared.

The correct question is why they invited both of us.

Haruki sat upright.

What?

No reply.

Of course.

Aoi enjoyed psychological damage as a recreational activity.

Several hours later, Mizuno confirmed it.

"Joint discussion."

Haruki frowned.

"Why?"

The editor sounded equally annoyed.

"Because publishers are strange."

A pause.

"Also because they want leverage."

That sounded bad.

Very bad.

Mizuno continued.

"They know you’re aware of each other."

Another pause.

"They know comparison creates pressure."

Then:

"They want information."

The explanation lingered after the call ended.

Publishers weren’t just evaluating creators.

They were evaluating negotiations.

The realization made the entire industry feel more complicated.

Again.

The next morning arrived too quickly.

Yamashita Publishing occupied six floors of a modern office building.

Glass.

Steel.

Expensive furniture.

The kind of place designed to communicate success.

Haruki arrived five minutes early.

Aoi arrived seven minutes early.

Naturally.

The rival sat reading something.

Probably productivity research.

Or military doctrine.

With Aoi, both felt possible.

"You look tired."

Aoi glanced up.

"You look distracted."

Neither statement qualified as a greeting.

A healthy friendship.

Very healthy.

Before Haruki could respond, the meeting began.

Three editors.

One talent manager.

Several folders.

A dangerous amount of folders.

The discussion started professionally.

Threadless Gate.

Signal Zero.

Future goals.

Industry trends.

Then the questions changed.

Not about stories.

About creators.

Work habits.

Schedules.

Collaboration styles.

The atmosphere shifted.

Subtly.

The editors weren’t discussing manga anymore.

They were discussing careers.

At one point, an editor asked:

"What is your biggest professional weakness?"

Haruki immediately thought of deadlines.

Aoi immediately answered.

"Control."

The room paused.

The editor blinked.

"Control?"

Aoi nodded.

"I struggle to delegate."

No hesitation.

No embarrassment.

Just honesty.

Interesting.

No.

Stop.

The habit was immortal.

Then Haruki’s turn arrived.

The obvious answer remained deadlines.

The true answer felt different.

He surprised himself.

"I compare myself too much."

The room became quieter.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

One editor wrote something down.

That somehow felt worse.

The meeting continued.

An hour later, the official discussion ended.

The editors left.

The talent manager left.

Haruki prepared to leave.

Then another voice interrupted.

"Stay a minute."

Editor Nakamura.

The senior editor closed the door.

Then sat back down.

The atmosphere changed instantly.

Less formal.

More honest.

Nakamura looked between both creators.

Then asked:

"What do you think success looks like?"

The question landed differently than expected.

Neither creator answered immediately.

Aoi spoke first.

"Creating work I’m proud of."

Simple.

Expected.

Then Haruki.

The answer should have been similar.

Instead, a photo flashed through his mind.

A community center.

A tired smile.

A message.

I think I chose the right job.

The memory appeared so suddenly it nearly derailed him.

Success.

What did success look like?

For several seconds he genuinely didn’t know.

Then:

"Building something that matters."

The answer emerged slowly.

Not polished.

Not perfect.

Honest.

Nakamura nodded.

Satisfied.

Then stood.

The meeting ended.

Outside the office building, Aoi and Haruki walked toward the station.

The afternoon crowd flowed around them.

Neither spoke immediately.

Eventually Aoi broke the silence.

"You changed your answer."

Haruki frowned.

"What?"

"The success question."

A pause.

"You almost said something else."

Haruki stared.

Because the observation was accurate.

Annoyingly accurate.

The rival adjusted his bag.

Then added:

"Good."

There it was again.

The impossible habit these people shared.

Giving advice without permission.

Before Haruki could respond, Aoi disappeared into the crowd.

Just like that.

No explanation.

No elaboration.

That evening, Haruki returned home exhausted.

Publisher politics.

Creator rivalry.

Future decisions.

Everything felt complicated.

The apartment remained empty.

Yui worked late.

The silence returned.

This time, Haruki didn’t distract himself.

Didn’t open the manuscript immediately.

Didn’t check forums.

Didn’t review contracts.

Instead he looked at the photo Yui sent days earlier.

The smile.

The community center.

The certainty.

Then he finally asked himself the question he’d avoided.

Not:

Why does her coworker annoy me?

Not:

Why do I miss dinner together?

Not:

Why does the apartment feel different?

The real question.

The dangerous question.

Why does it matter so much?

For the first time, Haruki didn’t have an answer.

And for the first time in a long while, that uncertainty frightened him more than any publisher contract ever could.